


Dishonor: A Tragedy in Endless Acts

by SatyrLater



Category: Sanjuro (1962), Yojimbo (1961)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Brief mention of prostitution, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Centipede Gang, Disaster Bi Sanjuro, Ensemble Cast, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sensuality, Snarky Sanjuro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23525065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatyrLater/pseuds/SatyrLater
Summary: "My name?” He wanders to the window before seating himself across from her. “My name is...” he picks a family name with theatrical idleness, hoping to make them smile. He looks at the flowers blooming over the walls of their neighbor, their enemy Kurofuji. “Camellia, Thirty-Years-Old.”Tsubaki Sanjuro. Thirty years old, as if time had halted, as if he’d died along with everyone else and would never age again. A ghost too stupid to know it was time to move on.“Though now I’m almost forty,” he says, as much a confession as a reminder.Sanjuro's POV on the events of his eponymous film. Can be read without watching Sanjuro (1962), though spoilers ahead!
Relationships: Sanjuro/Muroto
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	Dishonor: A Tragedy in Endless Acts

_Brilliant, they cheer, as if he’d done something admirable, as if he hadn’t gutted a good man like a dog—_

He’s already in a bad mood before the boys take over the shrine. It’s an awful night, dense air, dark thoughts. The wind blows so cold that he’s barely asleep when their heavy steps wake him. By the time they’ve lit the lanterns, he’s crawled over to the back room and encased himself in shadow. He watches. His hand flits over the sheath, but it quickly becomes clear that they have nothing to do with him. He smiles to himself. What did he expect?

Their voices carry well, and he hears the whole story. The leader has discovered injustice, but the chamberlain— “My uncle,” the boy says— has seemingly dismissed the issue entirely. The boy spoke with the superintendent next, who soothed the child with sugar tones, told the group what they wanted to hear. _Idiots_. They’re trying to fight corruption, armed with the political acumen of children, trusting their enemies and insulting their friends. Worse, they’re disturbing his sleep. Time to make an appearance. 

The ringleader, the chamberlain’s nephew, doesn’t know a thing. It’s clear as the sky, as the boy threatens him, the others with their hands on their scabbards. He stares a moment before mocking them. He lets his mind float. The boy’s face is somehow familiar. It bothers him like an empty bottle of sake. Maybe, long ago, if his lord’s heir had— no, the child would never have been so foolish, if he’d been allowed to grow. 

The superintendent— Kikui— is corrupt. Chamberlain Mutsuta is not. Is that so hard to see? They stare in mute incomprehension as he explains it as simply as he can. Kikui pretended to be on their side. The man is probably waiting for the boys to gather their forces in order to destroy them all in one fell swoop. 

Was he so stupid at their age? Probably, he decides, sitting down and scratching himself. Fleas, he’s certain. Oh well. Now that he’s pointed out the wisest course of action, he decides that— 

“But we were supposed to meet with him tonight!” 

“What?” he exclaims, running to the door. He looks in all directions and laughs. Enemies circle them like wolves. Of course. “We’re completely surrounded. Not even an ant could escape.” 

They’re lucky he’s here to even the odds. They draw their swords and prepare to make war. “The foolishness never ends, does it?” The exclamation is nearly involuntary. “Living is good. Dying is not. Is that so difficult?” He’d long since learned that what was clear as crystal to him was often as dense as rock to others, but this seemed obvious. Astounding, how hurt they look at pure facts. 

After much balking, they finally deign to follow his plan. He counts them one by one as they slip under the floorboards. Nine of them. Nine alleged samurai, and not an intelligent thought between them. Ugh. The problem is, he decides, they are too young to believe in death and too privileged to lose faith in honor. 

The chamberlain’s nephew is the last to descend. “I’m Izaka Iori,” the boy says, looking up at him before sinking under the floor. 

“I don’t care who you are, so long as you stay quiet.” 

Who does that boy resemble? He slips the boards back into place with quick fingers. Perhaps the farmer’s son who went back to a long life of gruel. He shakes his head to himself. For all his faults, the boy— Izaka— has none of the fear and frenzy of the other youth. No, he still can’t place the resemblance. It is a poor night for recollection. 

* * *

_He’d never understood harakiri until his third decade. In his youth, it always struck him as a complete waste. It’s not a thought that’s ever truly gone away, but now he sees another possibility. Maybe it was meant as a kindness, to spare men from the type of life he’s led. Maybe it’s to let them die without ever having to live in disgrace._

It’s easy to play a grouchy, drunk ronin. He has the last seven years as reference. He snaps and snarls at the superintendent’s lackeys, letting himself loosen some of his frustration. After some more shouting, he shoves the intruders out of the shrine. When they pull blades he strikes back with his sheathed sword, holding off the mob easily. They’re not very good. 

“Pull back!” he hears someone command. “He’s not the one we’re looking for. Besides, disposing of him would take too long.” 

It’s a flattering comment. It comes from a clean-cut samurai, who looks at him and smiles. They circle briefly, assessing one another for weakness. The newcomer is a killer. He and the man have the same walk, low and grounded like an animal. Their hands remain still, ready for a moment of action. Their eyes meet in the dusky gloom. 

The man is trim and neat and angular and watches him with a muted curiosity. It’s a rare sight compared to the usual disdain. Still, it shocks him to receive a job offer. His mysterious flatterer works for Kikui and wants him to join the clan. 

“My name is Muroto Hanbei,” the man barks, before turning with an elegant movement and vanishing from sight. 

When the boys climb out from under the floorboards, they look like orphaned ducklings, waiting to imprint on the first thing they see. He looks around without much optimism. Just as he feared. He’s now Momma Duck. 

They thank him and bow. It makes him uncomfortable, so he asks for money and watches their hero-worship burn like a cheap building. A real samurai doesn’t earn a living. A real samurai starves to death. 

He starts to leave before giving one last check to see if they’ve learned anything. Momma Duck in action. “What will you do next?” 

“You’ve opened our eyes. We’ll go to my uncle and follow his instructions.” They can be taught! 

He looks back as he descends the steps. He’s stalling. The boy seems so familiar. Then Izaka speaks of justice and rightness and the past strikes him, sends blades through his throat and chest. Happier times, when his father would chastise him in a droning voice, when his mother would smile at him in greeting, when two children would read together, one voice confident, on the cusp of manhood, and the other faltering and high. A face he barely remembers. 

He tamps down on the old wound, decades old and still painful. Returns to the present. Lets his mind catch up with the truth. Oh? _Oh._

“Wait. That won’t do. The chamberlain’s in danger now,” he says. 

The boys rise to their feet, ready to rush to the chamberlain’s house and get caught. He stops Izaka at the door. They all begin to talk and renew their dedication. “The nine of us are in this together,” one exclaims. 

Their devotion is almost endearing, if it weren’t for how stupid— 

They’re almost certain to die— 

Don’t do it, don’t— 

“The ten of us!” he bellows. “I can’t watch you blunder your way to your deaths.” 

They lead him to the chamberlain’s house. He takes over the operation as they near it. As they creep towards the house, the boys lay themselves out in a line behind him, following his every move. It’s the stupidest thing he’s ever seen. He hates being Momma Duck. He’s changing animals. “We can’t keep moving like this, like a centipede. Is there somewhere we can hide?” Izaka indicates a barn, and the newly-dubbed centipede gang is off. 

They catch a serving girl at their new hideout. Once she has calmed down, the serving girl— Koiso— gives a neat account of events. The chamberlain has been captured and moved. Only his wife and daughter remain in the house. Koiso’s escape is quite clever, but it risks raising the alarm. Regretfully, he tells them to send her back, and requests that she get the guards drunk on sake. After a moment of trepidation, she acquiesces. Brave girl. “Now there’s a samurai. More reliable than the rest of you,” he says from his perch on the wheelbarrow. They don’t like his tone, a youth named Yasukawa tells him. Cry him a river. 

He puts his vote to meet at the nearest house, which belongs to a boy named Terada. It’s next door to one of their other enemies, the vice-chamberlain— Kurofuji— which sounds like fun. What’s life without a little amusement? 

He sends most of the centipede gang off to do busy work and is left with Izaki, Terada, and the idiot Yasukawa. They don’t like his orders to rescue the women while he takes care of the guards, killing two and saving one for interrogation. He begins to creep around before turning back. “Why are you looking at me like that? Want to draw your swords? Forget it. A stupid friend’s sword is deadlier than an enemy’s. I don’t want to get cut to pieces,” he hisses. 

Besides, they’re too innocent to know what killing means. Best to save it for souls already dripping with blood. 

* * *

_Izaki pulls him aside that same evening. “It wasn’t just that I wanted to kill someone,” the boy says. “It just didn’t seem fair, three against one.”_

_He can only look away, his shoulder twitching. “It wasn’t.”_

_It’s been a long time since he’s been in a fair fight. He quietly longs for one. It wasn’t fair when he killed the guards. It wasn’t fair when he killed cronies and thugs. It wasn’t fair when he killed men and women at his lord’s behest._

_Many have died by his hand. He knows the number to reasonable certainty. When he was young, it had been a point of pride. It was proof of his worth, that he’d been the best, a well-groomed hound lying at his lord’s feet. But obedience to a lesser mind wore him down, the grinding pain worse and worse each day. He’d snapped. The punishment was dire._

_At first, he hadn’t been able to return home. Soon, there wasn’t a home to return to._

He’s ready to attack. The guards are drunk, busy celebrating their sake. A sudden burst of noise summons someone from the house. It is the samurai, Muroto Hanbei. The boys seem to take this as good news. They don’t notice how Muroto’s large eyes scan the landscape with a fearful precision. He has to stop the boys from rushing to their deaths. 

He suspects that the samurai could be more than a match for him. “Those three guards are kitty-cats. He may be alone, but he’s a tiger.” Luckily, Muroto soon becomes occupied with berating the drunken men. The samurai’s posture, so proper in front of the red-faced guards, is almost comical. With one last rebuke, the man strides away, leaving three guards as replacement.

By the time the boys have rescued the ladies, his sword is back in its sheath. 

The ladies are soft, gentle, unused to painful reality. They fill him with an aching nostalgia. He sits on the opposite side of the haystack so he doesn’t have to see them. 

“Who is that gentleman?” the chamberlain’s wife asks, apparently meaning him.

“It’s hard to explain. A strange series of events has made him our ally,” Izaka explains.

He twirls a piece of straw. Odd way to say “this is the man who’s been saving our asses all night,” but maybe he’s just forgotten how to speak to these elevated noble types. 

“Indeed, he saved our lives.”

Oh, so there’s his acknowledgement. He opens his mouth to make a snarky response, but the ladies are thanking him and bowing. Their gratitude ties bands around his throat. He turns away from both women, nauseous on an empty stomach. 

The ladies are the chamberlain’s wife and daughter are the woman Nui are shades that only live in his memory. The past is turning his blood to ice. He can barely think but to try to breathe and survive another moment. They both stare at him. At his mangy, scruffy, threadbare self. It doesn’t help. Leads him to wonder what the ghosts of the past would think of him now. 

Tch. How pointless.

The dead don’t think a thing. 

It’s the smell of straw that brings him back to the present. The chamberlain’s wife must be thinking about the same thing, since she comments on how she loves the scent. 

“We come here often, don’t we, Iori?” the girl says to her cousin. 

Hah! So that’s how it is. With an expression that’s only slightly pained, Izaka goes to fetch the other boys. 

It’s just him protecting the ladies. They seem to have forgotten his presence and talk with abandon. The daughter’s dreams are all tied up in clouds and straw. It’s almost poetic, and he turns to see if it’s only an act. But no, she is lying in the straw with a peaceful smile on her face. 

“Not very ladylike,” her mother says gently, before joining her anyways. 

He stares for a moment, unwilling to untangle his feelings. 

A sudden sound alerts him. He stands with his hand on the scabbard, but it’s only the boys. They’re carrying the captured guard. In spite of a long conversation with the pond, the man refuses to talk. 

He sighs. “He’s seen our faces, we’ll have to kill him.” 

“That just won’t do,” a soft voice interjects. It’s the wife. “And you killed the other two as well, didn’t you?” 

He turns from her gentle, inquiring expression. “I did it to rescue you. I had no choice.” 

“I hesitate to say this after you so kindly saved us, but killing people is a bad habit.” 

It’s an absurd rebuke, as if killing was another vice, like alcoholism or gambling. He feels like a wolf being scolded by a hare. It’s surprisingly effective. 

“You glisten too brightly,” she tells him.

“Glisten?” He is sure he’s misheard her. 

“Yes. Like a drawn sword.” 

“A drawn sword?” 

She nods. “You’re like a sword without a sheath. You cut well, but the best sword is kept in its sheath.” 

She looks at him with the lady’s eyes with the eyes of his mother with the eyes of all his ghosts and it hurts more than it should. It wasn’t too long ago that he reveled in playing god in a nowhere town. He’d enjoyed those killings, Unosuke and Ushitora and all those others. 

He tries to recover while they decide what to do with the guard. But the lady just asks the man to come with them and that is that. 

When the alarm is rung, they start their escape. He fashions some straw into a makeshift gag for their prisoner. Feeling petty, he uses more than necessary. He frees the horses to draw their pursuers away from them. Every bit helps. 

By the time he catches up, the ladies are refusing to climb the exterior wall, claiming it is impossible. He sighs. The wall is not tall. In fact, he himself is taller. And their pursuers are nearly on top of them. 

“Use me as a footrest,” he exclaims, crouching down. 

They demur. 

“No buts! Your hesitation will force me to kill more men.” 

That does it. 

The old lady is heavy on his aging back. He does his best to forget that she’s the first of two. Perhaps the girl will be lighter, he thinks without much optimism. 

There once was a time when he’d had the tact to smile and speak sweet words that would have gently convinced them. There once was a time when he hadn’t been so threadbare as to snarl like a sick dog. There once was a time, eons ago, nearly at the edge of his memory, before these women started standing on his back, apparently trying to break it. Once they’ve passed into the care of the boys, he stands up and jumps the wall. He ignores the look Izaka sends him as he smacks the dirt off his knees. Honor and dignity are all well and good, but survival takes priority.

The centipede gang finally arrives at the safe house. Their prisoner is in a closet and the ladies are washing their feet. He demands sake. He feels like he’s earned it. “I’m smarter when I drink,” he drawls. 

Before he can bully it out of them, the ladies come in to discuss the chamberlain. The sight of them kneeling so neatly discomfits him. He sits in the doorway, near enough to hear, far enough to avoid being part of it, and listens as they put the pieces together. If the chamberlain is forced to sign a confession, the conspirators will force the man to commit harakiri. The chamberlain’s wife has full faith in her husband’s ability to avoid death. She’s not been wrong yet, he thinks to himself. 

They discuss their plans, with a few interjections from him. At the end they all bow to one another. He tries to stay out of it, but the lady gives him a special nod and smile. It draws his attention. 

“But please refrain from excessive violence,” she says, still looking at him. He scratches his head and starts to leave. Before he can escape she asks his name. 

“Oh. My name?” He wanders to the window before seating himself across from her. “My name is...” he picks a family name with theatrical idleness, hoping to make them smile. He looks at the flowers blooming over the walls of their neighbor, their enemy Kurofuji. “Camellia, Thirty-Years-Old.” 

Tsubaki Sanjuro. Thirty years old, as if time had halted, as if he’d died along with everyone else and would never age again. A ghost too stupid to know it was time to move on. 

“Though now I’m almost forty,” he says, as much a confession as a reminder. 

Camellia-mulberry-cedar-azalea-maple— he could go on. 

He could be a whole garden. 

The ladies laugh, the boys smile, and it brings a nostalgic sense of warmth to his heart. He’s in the present, sharing a small mote of light.

* * *

_He’s dreaming half-awake about the past, about the no-name town he’d painted with blood. Against the red canvas of his eyelids, memories flow like ink. As he slips further into sleep, the past becomes the present._

_The rain pours. He imagines the water, flowing over the roofs, down walls, turning the roads into mud. The official refuses to leave, enjoying each day of pleasant bribes. Seibei’s wife tries to do the same with him._

_A knock on the bar door reveals a girl, shivering in the downpour. It’s one of the prostitutes from Seibei’s brothel. The paint on her chin is starting to smear._

_“What are you doing?” he snaps._

_She tries to shrug. “Lady Orin sent me. Seibei doesn’t know I’m here.”_

_He grimaces. “Get inside before you freeze to death.” He turns to the back of the room. “Oi, old man, bring something warm to eat.”_

_The tavern-keeper, Gonji, shuffles over with disapproval. “What? Plan to compensate her before you force her into your bed?”_

_“I don’t have a bed,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just tally the cost and then forget about it. You’d rather she go hungry?” He stares Gonji down._

_The old man fills a bowl and slams it onto the table. “I’m leaving. I don’t want any part in this.”_

_“Sure.”_

_He waits until Gonji is gone before gesturing to the meal. “Don’t waste it.”_

_She doesn’t wait a moment. The bowl is soon empty and she looks at him across the table._

_“How old are you?” he asks her._

_“Sixteen.”_

_“Revolting. You don’t even have all your teeth yet.” He makes a comically disgusted face. It earns him a giggle. He stands up to crack his back. “Alright, kid. Get going. Tell Orin that I threw you out by the ear.”_

_She stares at him._

_“What, gone deaf?” he growls. “Go back to the brothel or I’ll_ really _throw you out. I don’t take bribes.”_

_The girl gets up and hurries to the door before turning back. “...You’ll kill Orin, won’t you?”_

_He smiles. It’s nasty and bitter and cruel and it eases the tension in the girl’s shoulders. “It might not be my blade, but you’ll be free of her. Just a little longer.”_

_She smiles back at him, gentle and sweet, then vanishes into the pouring rain._

He’s stuffing his mouth with rice, like a reasonable man, when the boys tell him that Muroto is reporting the ladies’ disappearance to Kikui and the others. He feels a pang of sympathy for his fellow samurai. It’s not the man’s fault for being outsmarted. 

Muroto manages to have the last laugh by disguising where the higher-ups are meeting. The samurai sends messengers to every house. The conspirators also preempt him with a propaganda coup, publicly accusing the chamberlain of corruption. 

Clever. If they’d given him sake he could have predicted this. 

Somehow he ends up circled by the boys. They’re pretty despondent over the recent turn of events. Feeling bested by the first parry. It’s... actually quite relatable. He tries to do a nice thing by reminding them their enemies don’t know their small numbers. It doesn’t seem to help. 

Whatever. He’s going to take a nap. 

He’s half asleep, dreaming of the past without too much bitterness when the centipede gang begins to stampede around the house. 

“Kurofuji left in a palanquin!” 

“Kurofuji’s arrived at Kikui’s house!” 

All well and good, but why are they bothering him about it? He reminds himself that it’s their first political intrigue. Patience.

“Two palanquins have left Kikui’s!” 

They’re too loud. He tries crawling to another part of the house to avoid them. 

“They’ve entered Takebayashi’s compound!” 

They literally stand right next to him, shouting at one another as if he wasn’t trying to sleep. First they bore him, and then don’t even have the courtesy to let him rest. 

“Three palanquins have left Takebayashi’s compound!” Takebayashi? Who’s that again? He’s too sleepy to keep track of all these people. Maybe this will be the weak link that leads them to destruction. This wouldn’t be a problem if the boys would just be quiet. 

They all decide to intercept the palanquins at their destination. That wakes him up. “Wait.” It feels like he constantly needs to be supervising them or they start trying to kill themselves. Is this what it’s like to have a child? He sends a quiet prayer to mothers everywhere. 

They somehow don’t see anything suspicious in the main conspirators venturing out from their compounds under minimal guard to an isolated location. This is ridiculous. He’s too tired to roar at them, so his scolding lacks teeth. Maybe that’s why they decide to follow the palanquins anyways. 

“It’s a stupid plan, but some excitement might keep me awake,” he says. 

He regrets it the moment they decide to attack. He should have been stricter with the centipede gang. Now they don’t listen to him at all. He tries one more time, but gets a rude retort from dissenter-in-chief Yasukawa for his trouble. 

“Suit yourselves. It isn’t my problem.” If these idiots want to die so badly, there’s no point in getting in the way. 

They’re saved by a stroke of luck. Well-meaning cavalrymen spring the trap ahead of the boys and are nearly cut to pieces by Kikui’s men. Muroto is there and quickly surmises that the trap has caught the wrong prey. 

The boys turn apologetic eyes towards him, but he’s in a terrible mood. “I’m out of patience. I’ve had enough of you idiots,” he snaps. 

Izaka runs up to him, struggling to match his rapid pace. “I’m sorry, but we had to take the risk. What if it hadn’t been a trap?” 

“There’s no way that it wasn’t a trap. A blind man could see it!” 

“But—” 

“You’re the stupidest children I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,” he hisses, turning to face the rest of the boys. “You almost committed the messiest suicide of the century. What is _wrong_ with you? I wish I’d never come to this town.”

“I’m sorry,” Izaka says again, as if it will help. “I’m just, just really worried about my uncle. It’s my fault that he got captured. I’m the one that sent the petitions and alerted Kikui. It’s...” The boy looks on the verge of tears. It’s sickening. 

“Stop that! Pathetic people make my blood boil.” He shoves Izaka forward. “Keep moving. We need to get out of here.” 

“Does that mean you’ll stay?” 

“If I don’t, you’re all going to trip on a rock and die of starvation or something. Ugh! I hate you kids. Keep moving. Don’t make noise or trouble. And you,” he snaps, pointing to Yasukawa, whose mouth is open, poised to say something stupid, “shut it. We’re going home.” 

They return to the house to find their prisoner not only free, but eating rice and dressed in Terada’s finest clothes. The guard apologizes, explaining that the lady was the one to do all this. They ask the man the reason for not escaping.

“It never occurred to the lady that I would, so I couldn’t.” Ah, so it’s not just him. The guard finishes eating, before politely returning to the closet. 

“That lady is hopelessly naive,” Izaki says, like a hypocrite. 

The boy doesn’t see her calm, motherly control over everyone around her, her quiet understanding of everything that’s happened. “Tch. She’s just a little slow, that’s all,” he replies. 

* * *

_“Have you ever been in love?” Izaka asks him, watching the chamberlain’s daughter as she sits outside, washing the mud off of her feet._

_“What do you think?” he says with a flat look._

_Izaka stares at him silently, apparently hesitant to speculate._

_He rolls his eyes. “When I was young and stupid.”_

_The boy waves away his language. “How do you know that it’s love and not... some baser emotion?”_

_They’re really having this conversation? Seriously? He nearly spits out something sarcastic before catching Izaka’s worried gaze. Ugh. “Do you respect her? Do you trust her? Would you choose her happiness over your own selfish desires?”_

_The boy stares at him, baffled._

_“There you go. Men are terrible at it. That’s why women love far more often than men do. Here is my opinion: a man should always marry a woman that’s smarter than him.” He gets up to escape this embarrassing discussion. “Luckily, it means you have countless girls to choose from.”_

_He’s halfway down the hall before he hears Izaka’s cry of indignation. It puts a childish grin on his face._

The boys are despairing again. They whine about the insurmountable odds and the impossibility of their task. Tiresome. 

“We don’t stand a chance, do we?” he says, stretching out his arm.

“It doesn’t matter. Live or die, the nine of us are together,” he hears from Yasukawa. The boy can’t plan and can’t count either. 

“Ten of us,” he growls, giving the boy a cold stare. He stands up to prowl around. “I’ll go visit Kikui.” 

“What for?” Izaka asks.

How dumb can someone be? Isn’t it obvious? “To offer my services. Muroto kindly offered me a job,” he says with a smirk. It’s fun to wind them up, he thinks as he wanders away to Kikui’s compound. 

He’s turned away at the door. The guard tells him Muroto is busy, clearly not liking his looks. But the cavalry leave and there is the samurai, sending them off. 

“So, you made it! I’ve been waiting for you.” Muroto seems genuinely happy to see him. It’s a novelty. Though not so hard to understand, he considers, when a killer recognizes kin. 

“Oh. But I hear you’re busy. I’ll come again,” he says, playing coy.

“I don’t mind. Come in.” 

Muroto practically glides across the compound with him in tow. “You won’t regret accepting my offer. You’ll be rewarded most handsomely.” 

“I expected nothing less. You run a tight ship.” 

“You’re too kind,” Muroto replies, trying to hide his pleased expression. 

They stop in a quiet corner of the courtyard, watching the occasional figure go by in front of them.

“Where have you been sleeping?” Muroto asks.

“Oh, you know. Here and there, mostly shrines and such.”

“Like the one we so rudely disturbed you at?” 

“Yes, though it’s forgiven. Your generous offer put me in a good mood.” 

Muroto smiles. “I’m glad. It would be a pity to start off on the wrong foot.” 

“I’d think I was at greater risk of that, from what I remember of my behavior that night.”

“Hah! I found it impressive, though I’m glad the superintendent and his men didn’t see you that way.”

“Yes, it’s probably for the best that I sobered up before I came. Will I have a chance to meet them?” 

“Of course.” Muroto squints at him. For a moment he fears that the samurai has seen through his scheming, but the man gestures him to follow as they start walking again. “We’ll have to tidy you up. I want them to take you seriously, give you the respect you deserve.”

“You don’t think they’ll like my scruff?” 

“Unfortunately not.” Muroto looks back at him with an inviting smile. “I have my own opinions.” 

_Oh_. So that’s how it is. 

He assesses Muroto from this new perspective. He’s always been as fond of men as women, though he’d had few opportunities for either in the past several years. Muroto is handsome, in a trim sort of way. Better yet, the man is no naive youth or jaded woman. “If you like it, maybe I should keep it.” He runs a thumb over his cheek and watches Muroto’s eyes follow the motion. 

“You think so highly of me?” 

He nods. It’s not a lie. He lets himself eye Muroto openly. “Will you help me make something of myself? I’d like to look as neat as you, but I have no short sword.” 

The man seems to enjoy the thought of holding a blade to his throat. “I’d be honored, but what if the superintendent wants to meet you before I can?” 

“I don’t mind. I already have your esteem, don’t I?” 

Muroto circles him. “I’m a busy man. You would have to wait until late night.” 

“Late, eh? If that’s the case, it might be best to meet in your quarters.” His lip twitches. 

“Yes, your reasoning is impeccable.” 

“I was always bright.” 

The samurai turns his large eyes forward and gestures to a room. “But for now, wait here while I fetch the sake. I want to celebrate.” 

“Fancy that. So do I.” 

Muroto will reveal what he wants to know in due time. Until then, there’s no shame in mixing business with some pleasure. 

He tries sneaking from the room but Muroto is swift to return, bearing sake and cups. 

“The household is nearly empty, so we can’t welcome you properly. But,” the man says with a smile, “we can still share a drink.” 

He lets their hands touch when the man hands him a cup. 

“I’m grateful,” the samurai says. “With your help, we’ll see some real results.” It’s a nice change from the boys and their disdain. “You came just in time.” 

“I saw the noticeboard. It seems there’s some unrest in your clan. A large contingent of men just left. Where did they go?” He sends a lopsided smile in his companion’s direction for good measure. 

It works. Muroto smiles back and says, “I’ll take you there right now.” The samurai leans forward. “Just so you know, everything in that notice was a bald-faced lie. Superintendent Kikui is the rotten one.”

“But you’re his—” 

“Retainer. Like attracts like,” the man says, staring into his eyes. “I’m rotten too.” 

The combination of actions and words is nearly too much. It’s almost enough to make him reach across the mat, consequences be damned. It’s almost enough to make him curl his fingers into Muroto’s robe and beg for what he needs. It’s almost enough to make him break his vow to the boys. But foolishness wins out. He holds his tongue, fills his mouth with sake to silence himself. He has control, even when he has nothing else. Tonight, he reminds himself, tonight. 

And still, in some odd way it is fascinating to be Muroto’s enemy, to counter each of the samurai’s strikes with tricks of his own. 

“You see, Chamberlain Mutsuta is a shrewd character. Not easy to break. But with him out of the way, the clan is ours for the taking.” Muroto talks clan politics with an attractive confidence. “Kikui is cunning but not a commanding presence. He pushes Mutsuta out of the way—” 

“And you and I eat him up.” 

“Precisely.” Muroto rewards him with a pleased expression and is still smiling as they drink. The samurai stands. “I’ll take you to him now. But remember: he as an inflated view of himself, so—” 

“Stroke his ego and he’ll purr.” 

“You catch on fast. Good boy.” The samurai grins like a cat that caught the canary. 

All this praise is going to his head. Muroto is a take charge kind of man, so to speak. There are many intriguing speculations therein. 

He follows Muroto out at a sedate pace. 

The boys ruin everything, of course. It seems to be their main occupation. 

“Someone’s following us,” he tells Muroto, keeping his voice low. 

“Turn right at the corner,” Muroto murmurs in turn. 

It is, of course, a fraction of the centipede gang. The idiot Yasukawa, Kawahara, Hirose and lastly Izaka, from whom he expected better. Muroto smacks two with his sheathed sword while he remains against the wall. In part, he hesitates to harm the boys, but he has other reasons. Muroto’s strikes are clean and quick. It’s quite attractive. The beauty of his companion’s movements are tainted by the boys’ stupidity. Are they more suicidal than the average samurai or has he aged out? 

“Take them alive!” Muroto shouts as he chases down a third victim. A lucky break. His own target, Izaka, stumbles before he’s even laid a mark on the boy. 

“Fool! What’s this?” he snarls after chasing Izaka to a tree. 

“I was against it but they said you’d betray us!” 

“Idiot! Now you’ll have to give yourself up. Muroto’s coming.” Maybe there’s a chance to salvage this, he thinks without much optimism. “Attack me! Don’t just stand there!” 

The boy makes a few reasonably acceptable strikes. He dodges and smacks the boy in the stomach with his sheathed sword. Out of habit he half takes his sword out to clean it before putting it away. No need for that. No blood. 

Not yet. 

“This greenhorn here put up a good fight,” he says to Muroto. 

“A fine present. He’s the leader of the resistance.” Muroto’s tone is nearly all business, though his large eyes spark with energy. “Izaka, the chamberlain’s nephew.” 

“Oh?” He kicks the boy gently. He doesn’t want to actually break Izaka’s ribs. Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, it’ll become the truth. 

“They’re a nice present, but they’re too heavy to carry to Kikui,” Muroto says, absently hefting a sheathed sword. It’s a handsome image in the middle of all this mess. “Can you drag them together while I fetch the rope?” 

“Of course.” 

The samurai leaves and returns in record time. He doesn’t even have time to do anything beyond check that the boys are still breathing. 

Muroto chucks the rope at him. 

“You want me to do it?”

“Well, so far you’ve made me do most of the work, you know. You only got one.” 

He shrugs. “At least it was the cream of the crop, according to you. Besides,” he says, bending over to pick up the rope, “I wanted to watch you in action.” 

“And how did you find me?”

“Impressive, of course.” 

“We ought to spar sometime,” Muroto says, apparently more interested in the view than in helping. He gives the man an expectant look, but the samurai just smirks and gestures for him to continue. Tch. Handsome bastard. 

He starts tying them, careful not to make it too tight or too loose. “Sparring? I’d like that. I think I could learn a lot from you.” 

“You’re too kind.”

“Though I’d rather wait until I’m in a bit better condition,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy.” 

Muroto chuckles. “You seemed to be doing fine with Izaka.” 

“Sure, against a _greenhorn_.” He waves the end of the rope for emphasis. “It’s a different endeavor to compete with you.” 

“That’s true. What would you need?” 

“Nothing ambitious. Food, a place to sleep that’s not too uncomfortable.” 

“You ask for so little.” 

“I’m more likely to receive it.” 

Muroto makes an elegant gesture. “I’ll make sure of it.” The samurai’s teeth flash white in the gloom. “I can personally guarantee that you will sleep somewhere quite nice.” 

The boys are stirring now, and it brings Muroto back to a restrained professionalism. 

Izaka is the first to wake, worried eyes scanning the situation. Yasukawa is next, staring at him with intense dislike. It reminds him of the situation. Apparently, they don’t trust him, even after he’s saved their lives. Muroto trusts him, and all he’s done is smack men with a sheathed sword. With a sinking feeling, he knows he will have to do worse tonight.

“Look what we’ve caught,” Muroto drawls. “Some children out past curfew.” 

“What’s this, Muroto,” Yasukawa snaps, “so desperate for reinforcements that you hire a half starved, two-bit samurai?” 

Muroto looks offended on his behalf. The man yanks the prisoners harshly. “Bold talk for boys that lost a fight with twice the numbers.” 

“At least we have honor, unlike—” 

“Oh, so you were _honorably_ skulking behind us—” 

“—you and your damned mercenary—” 

“— how noble of you—” 

“— and you must feel so proud of yourself, being Kikui’s dog. I bet you lick his shoes when he kicks you.” 

Muroto’s lips twist with rage. For a moment he is certain that the samurai is about to unsheathe a sword and kill the lot of them. 

He readies himself to bleed, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“Sir.” Izaka’s voice is quiet and calm. “I apologize on behalf of my subordinates. We refuse to speak about our plans, and we have nothing else to converse about. It’s best that we just stay silent.” 

Muroto continues to stare. He puts his hand on the samurai’s shoulder, but is brushed off.

“You know it’s not true. Why let it bother you when you know what the future holds?” he murmurs in the man’s ear, close enough that his lips brush skin. Muroto doesn’t say anything, but no longer looks actively homicidal. That’s a victory in his eyes. 

He takes a deep breath and, taking charge of the prisoners, drags them along to the courtyard. 

They gag their prisoners. It’s what they deserve. Stupid children. He leans against the door, scratching his shoulder nervously. 

Muroto circles them, icy facade mostly rebuilt. “Take them away.” 

It’s time to salvage their conspiracy, though his personal life continues to suffer. “We should take more men. The others will try to rescue these four. We’re defenseless on the road.” 

Muroto stares at him, either irritated at his display of nerves or at the need to postpone their plans for the night. “Very well.” The samurai turns to his men, points at one. “Bring reinforcements quickly. It’s not safe to go alone. Take these two men with you.” 

He turns to Muroto, who is still upset. “Three’s not enough. I’ll go too.” His smile has no effect on the samurai and so he quickly turns and runs out the door. 

Muroto’s three chosen have tolerable footwork but no instinct for blood. They turn their backs to him, trusting he is on their side. They die one after the other and he runs back as fast as he can. 

He knocks thrice. “It’s me! Open up!” 

“What happened?” Muroto asks, more wide-eyed than usual. 

“Those three are already dead.” His unhappiness is unfeigned. 

Muroto stares down the road at their corpses, entirely his master’s retainer. 

“I’ll go instead. Where is it?” he asks Muroto, hoping that he can get away from this part of the disaster and discover where the army is. 

But the samurai is entirely too logical. “No one knows you there. I’ll go. You take charge.” the man vanishes into the night, slowing only for a moment beside the crumpled bodies. 

It’s painful, Muroto’s willingness to risk death by travelling down the road, ignorant that death has entered the compound. 

It’s painful how quickly Muroto trusts him, like a man starving for companionship. 

It’s painful, knowing what he must do next. He stares at the youth guarding the door with a pole, at the crowd gathered around the prisoners, and unsheathes his sword. 

* * *

_Unosuke’s last breath was a promise. “I’ll be waiting for you... at the gates of hell.” How many death-curses have been heaped upon his head? Too many to count. The gunman, the farmer, the mother, the child._

_In his more sardonic moments, he tries to imagine how he must appear to a holy man. A demon, perhaps? Or a gaping void, the inverse of a man? Was the blood that caked his soul dried and flaking or fresh and vivid?_

_It never used to bother him this way._

When he’s done, he feels ill, looking at his bloodstained sword glistening in the lantern light. 

In a rage, he strides to where the boys are waiting for him, dumbstruck at his bloody harvest. “This butchery is all thanks to you.” For a moment his anger is such that he nearly wants to kill them. He slaps them instead. Hard. It’s less punishment than they deserve. 

He throws his sword aside. “Tie me up!” 

Bound in rope, he waits for Muroto in the compound, the walls splattered with blood and the familiar stench of death perfuming the air. The boys had tied him too loosely at first, then overcompensated after his verbal bludgeoning. His hands are going numb. Not ideal, he thinks to himself, looking at his sword. He tries not to think of the rest of his body, which continues to remind him that he’s getting too old for such nonsense. 

Muroto returns on his horse, looking even more clean-cut than usual against the backdrop of slaughter. Faced by the samurai, he concentrates on looking as pathetic as possible. It’s not a hard task. Muroto looks aghast. As if he’d told the man a particularly off-color joke. In other circumstances it would be hilarious. 

The samurai slides off his horse in one fluid motion. It looks very dashing from the view he has out of the corner of his eye. The summoned army joins in the gawking. Ah well. He’s been in more embarrassing situations. He tries to remember any. 

“We’re too late. Ten men stay to clean up. The rest hurry back.” 

He can see Muroto’s eyes flicking back and forth, trying to recreate the fight. That won’t do. He wiggles to get the man’s attention. Though clearly disappointed, Muroto wastes no time in releasing him, placing a hand on his shoulder and a sword behind his back. Once untied, he lets out a sad wheeze that is barely feigned. 

“What’s this mess? I expected more from you.” Muroto hasn’t even seen him draw blood. What an odd realization. 

“I’m deeply ashamed. But when you’re outnumbered, you can only surrender. I’m not bound by duty to die like these guys here.” He winces as he stands up, feeling every year that brings him closer to forty. 

“This is no good. I can’t recommend you after a disgrace like this.” Muroto’s look of disgust stings. It’s justified, but nevertheless. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, for more things than the samurai knows. “But I remember that greenhorn’s face. I’ll redeem myself by bringing him to you.” 

He manages a smile before he leaves, the lady’s words from the night before echoing in his head. An unsheathed sword. An unsheathed sword. 

* * *

_“Iori’s such a good nephew,” the chamberlain’s wife says to him. She is making tea with careful, delicate movements while he tries to escape the room._

_“Oh?”_

_“He’s very respectful. Very dutiful.” She stares down into her cup. “After my son died, he promised to act in his stead. Never to replace him, but to honor his memory.” She smiles sweetly. “Such a kind boy.”_

_“He... reminds me of someone I used to know.” The words feel drawn out of him nearly by force. But he can’t be anything but honest to her, though he barely remembers how. “So do you, sometimes.”_

_She doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask any further questions. Only turns her gentle eyes on him and smiles._

The centipede gang gives him sake when he returns. It’s of finer quality than Muroto’s but not nearly as good. “You’re all so damned clever!” he snaps. “You ruined my well-laid plan.” And my plan for getting laid, he thinks but doesn’t say. “And you still don’t know where Kikui’s huge army went. Hah! What a life of leisure! At this rate, by the time you find Mutsuta, I’ll be a silver haired seventy-year-old.” He uses his sword to pantomime a cane. They seem relatively chastised. He just wants to rest. 

Gradually the boys all trickle away, speaking in low, solemn tones to one another. Eventually, there’s only one member of the centipede gang in the room. It’s the idiot Yasukawa, of course. Wonderful. Why not pile more garbage onto today? 

“What do you want?” he says, without much energy. “I’m too tired to slap you anymore, unless you sit next to me and lean forward.” 

Yasukawa doesn’t look in the mood to fight. He looks almost subdued. “You killed twenty men tonight to save our lives.”

“I don’t keep count,” he lies. “What’s your point?” 

“You tolerate us at best, and yet you fought on our behalf. You don’t even like me.” 

“Yeah, that’s true. I think you’re a jerk.” 

“Why are you making this so difficult?” Yasukawa shouts. “I’m trying to thank you!”

He shrugs. “There, you’ve thanked me. If you’re really grateful, then leave me alone. I’m trying to sleep.” 

Yasukawa stands and starts to leave with movements that are sharp and jerky. The boy pauses at the threshold and turns back. “I guess it’s true. You’re hopeless with gratitude.” 

The door shuts with a gentle thud, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

“I hate people like that,” he says to no one, before going to find a place to lie down. He turns to the wall and closes his eyes. 

Idly, he imagines a more pleasant end to the night. Maybe Muroto would have been just as commanding in private, maybe less restrained. “Let’s celebrate your last night as a scruffy vagrant,” Muroto says in his imagination, flashing him a smile. He’d have sat patiently as the man shaved him, sliding a blade over his skin, close enough to kill. That Muroto is his enemy would have made it even more attractive. The samurai would have finished and turned his face side to side with a firm grip. It’s easy to imagine the gesture becoming something more. 

Muroto might have pushed him down. Pressed his wrists to the floor and straddled his waist, the weight a reassurance. All he’d manage would be a token resistance. “You can rest now,” Muroto might have whispered in his ear. “I’ll take care of you.” 

He can use Muroto’s personal name in his dream, murmur _Hanbei, Hanbei,_ to his heart’s content. Muroto can moan his real name against his skin. It’s a fantasy, so why not? 

Muroto would release one wrist to caress his body, pull back his robe, exploring lower, hands skimming— 

His musings are cut off by the sliding of the closet door. “Forgive me,” their erstwhile prisoner says with dignity, “but I need to piss.” 

It startles a laugh out of him and he grants the man leave with a wave of his hand. 

* * *

_“You’re not a bad man. You just pretend to be,” Gonji once said. It’s a thought that he holds close to his chest, across his throat like armor on nights like this, when he wakes up covered in the memory of blood. The dreams are getting worse._

_The euphoria of his first kill, when he’d gone home wide-eyed and grinning. Messy killing. A butchery. Bedding that dancing girl and tasting the blood of a murdered man on her lips._

_His lady’s smile, broken and black and rotting. Her corpse on the mountainside where he’d found all the rest. Her darkened hands grasping, pulling him into the dirt._

_Unosuke’s life pooling on the dirt as he gnaws on the corpse like a dog._

_His shoulder twitches. The night is cold and dark, but it won’t be long until dawn. He’ll nap when it’s sunup, when the light can chase away his ghosts._

They find the uncle by chance. The petition the boys had given the man has washed downstream from Camellia Mansion. Izaka has a touching moment of familial affection and promptly turns to blunder into the afterlife. 

“Aren’t you tired of being stupid yet?” he asks them. “You want to attack? That’s what they’re waiting for.” They look at him blankly. They still haven’t figured it out. “Don’t you get it? Kikui’s men are next door. Take a look if you doubt me.” They look, of course. Kikui has assembled a whole army. 

“They’re a great many of them,” says Terada, the one closest to having any common sense. “What do we do?” 

He lets his thoughts float. 

“They overestimate our number, which is worse,” says Hirose. 

“That’s it!” He points at the boy. “I’ll go tell them where you are.” 

They jump to their feet but don’t attack him. Improvement. 

“They overestimate the size of your group. If I say an army has assembled somewhere, Kikui will send his men there. The house will be emptied, leaving you free to raid it.” 

They like the plan. Finally, one he doesn’t have to browbeat them into. 

“Hmm. Where shall I say that you are? Another shrine would be boring. How about a temple? I’ll say I was snoozing on the second floor of the gate and heard you swarm in.” They laugh with him. “Not a bad plan, eh? You know a good temple? Far enough away to give you time to rescue the chamberlain.” 

“Komyo Temple! A good distance and very secluded,” Terada says. Good lad. 

“Good. Komyo Temple it is. But listen. Even after Kikui’s men leave, wait for my signal. Once you’re inside, rescue him quickly. They’re still willing to kill him as a last recourse. Understand? Wait until I signal that it’s safe to rescue him.” 

“We understand. What’s the signal?”

“Wait until I’ve set the house ablaze.” 

“Goodness, no! That’s too reckless,” a gentle voice interjects. It is the chamberlain’s wife, of course. 

Her daughter stands. “I have an idea! Send something down the stream. I’ll watch the stream and see your signal for sure.” Huh. It’s not too terrible an idea, actually. The ladies are a bit smarter than their male counterparts. It’s a low bar, he thinks with some fondness. 

He amuses himself while the chamberlain’s wife compliments her daughter. 

“Mother, since it’s from Camellia Mansion, won’t camellias be nice? Red camellias... how wonderful that would be.” That grabs his attention.

“I rather prefer white myself,” her mother replies mildly. 

Flowers? _Flowers?_ Nope, nope, he retracts his previous statement, this is a stupid plan. He’s not doing this, he’s not about to— 

Fuck. 

“What’s the difference? It’s all camellias,” he snaps. 

“But sometimes they fall in naturally,” Izaka protests. 

“I’ll dump in a pile of ‘em!” he growls, before flinging the door shut behind him. 

Kurofuji’s Camellia Mansion is quite nice, actually. He walks in like he has every right to be there. 

Muroto is as crisp as ever, though his mouth remains firmly downturned. “How did you know I was here?”

Oh. So all business. Very well. “I heard the superintendent’s men were here. I assumed you would be here too.” They circle. 

“What do you want?” 

He tries a smile. “I brought you a nice gift. I was asleep on the second floor of the Komyo Temple...” 

It’s enough to send the army out. Muroto still trusts him that much. 

The samurai is clearly still displeased over the night before. “I can’t believe they made a fool of me,” the man mutters, watching the last of the cavalry leave. 

“They made a fool out of me too, or don’t you remember?” 

“They shouldn’t have left you struggling in the dirt. And you shouldn’t have let them.” 

“And died like the rest? I was outnumbered.” 

“It shouldn’t have mattered. Not for you.”

He shrugs and lets his head hang. “I was half dazed with hunger. And you weren’t there to help.” He looks up through his eyelashes at Muroto. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but those men didn’t hold a candle next to you.” 

Muroto’s expression softens incrementally. “Well, next time try to impress me.” 

He follows Muroto to a room. The samurai has regained some of his good humor. “Wait in here for now.” 

He watches for a moment to see if the man is really leaving before withdrawing inside. The other side of the room connects with the garden, which is laden with those damn flowers. He tries to go outside but the courtyard is occupied by some servants. Muroto returns, looking stern, as if the man has heard some unpleasant news. 

“We’re going to Komyo Temple. You’re coming with us.” Ah. He feels a perverse sense of pleasure at Muroto’s distrust. The man is no fool. 

“Oh, actually, I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I can’t fight on an empty stomach. Give me something to eat.” He seats himself and smiles up at Muroto. It’s fun to tease the man. If only he could do it under more pleasant circumstances. “I’ll catch up with you after I eat.” Wordlessly, Muroto shuts the door. 

He tries again for the garden. He’s interrupted by the serving girls bringing food. Muroto, ever faithful, has actually sent him a very nice meal. The girls stare at him silently. “I want to eat alone. Scram. It’s crowded in here.” Not very nice, but neither is he. 

Finally, the coast is clear. He goes out and starts picking camellias as fast as he can. 

A sword rests itself on his shoulder. Muroto. Of course. 

“What are you doing?” The samurai twists the blade so that it kisses his throat. 

“...I like camellias,” he tries, with an awkward smile. 

For a moment, Muroto looks on the verge of tears before twisting into rage. “Enough games!” The samurai disarms him. 

Muroto orders an underling to tie him to a rock. It’s quite uncomfortable. The samurai examines his sword, the one he took from a dead man. He hears fearful exclamations and two of the conspirators— Kurofuji and Takebayashi— flee the house. “It’s a trap! The temple has no second floor!” Great. That would have been nice to know. 

“Call your men back! It’s a trap!” Takebayashi exclaims. 

Muroto looks at him with an expression of shock. “There’s blood on your sword, and it’s fresh.” The man’s voice rises in volume. “You tricked me last night, you scum!” Muroto’s pain is not just for the men that he’d killed but for the words they had said to one another, he is sure. 

“You can question him later! Hurry!” Takebayashi mercifully interjects. 

Muroto flings the sword down, nearly stabbing his bound leg. It’s a pretty awful way to end their companionship. He squints up at Muroto, who looks absolutely bereaved. Guilt gnaws at his throat. The samurai turns back for one last look before leaving to recall the army. 

He pushes aside those feelings for now. Thinks about his mission. With Muroto gone, he is left with easy prey. Time for his performance.

He starts to laugh. “You guys are done for.” Takebayashi gapes at him. 

“No, you are!” Kurofuji snaps. 

“Poor fools, you have no idea. They’ll be attacking soon.” 

“Who?” Takebayashi exclaims. 

“The conspirators, of course,” he whispers, like he’s telling a ghost story. “They’re next door, waiting for my signal. Without my signal to abort, you’ll be dead before the army returns. Take a look if you don’t believe me.” He prays the boys are doing one thing properly and are actually watching the stream. It’s a long shot. 

“It’s just as he said! We have to do something quick!” 

“See? You’d better hurry. But I’ll make you an offer.” He has them on the line and can’t help but push it. “I’ll tell you the signal for fifty _ryo._ Gramps, they were watching the stream, right?”

“He’s right!” 

“You’d better hurry and send something downstream.” 

“Ah!” They start to panic. “He had a lot of red camellias when he was caught.” 

Kurofuji prods at him. “What are they the signal for?”

“Give me fifty _ryo._ ” 

“Tell me or we’ll kill you!” Kurofuji pulls out a sword and jabs it at his neck. He does so with less confidence than Muroto but a sword is a sword. 

“Ok, thirty.” They really look like they’re going to kill him so he doesn’t ask for ten. “All right, I’ll tell you. Red camellias mean to attack. White means to abort. No signal means I’m in trouble and they’ll attack.” They run off in a panic. “Don’t forget: the white ones!” He thinks of the chamberlain’s wife, sitting with her daughter and waiting for the signal. He hopes she appreciates this. 

It’s fun to watch them do the work for him. He shouts a few words of encouragement. “Don’t be stingy! Pile them in!” For old geezers, they move with gusto. Soon, the stream is filled with white camellias. It’s quite beautiful. 

The old men collapse in relief. “What a close call!” Kurofuji gasps, before their servants start shouting. 

“Thanks for your help, fellas! The color made no difference. 130 men are on their way! Flap around all you like!” It’s fun to watch them panic. 

The boys arrive, finally having a chance to show off their swords. “Don’t kill them!” he barks. For once, they actually obey. 

It’s the work of a moment for them to free Izaka’s uncle. The chamberlain emerges from Camellia Mansion surrounded by the boys. They’re all ecstatic. 

It’s his first glance at the man. As he’d suspected from the start, Mutsuta is ugly, though a feeling of good nature shines through, lending the man a certain dignity and warmth. 

“Oh, so you’ve found me. What a pleasant surprise,” the chamberlain says. 

Izaka steps forward from the mob. “Uncle, please forgive me for all the trouble I caused you!” The boy kneels in apology.

Mutsuta gestures Izaka to stand. “We’ll talk more later, but there’s no need to dirty your robe, Iori. You’ve done your best to fix your mistake.” 

Izaka points at him. “Uncle, this is the man we have to thank. He’s saved our lives countless times, and, in doing so, saved yours as well.” 

The chamberlain gives him a polite bow. “If that is the case, then let me express my gratitude.” An amused glint flashes in the old man’s eyes. “Perhaps a good way to start would be to free you from those bonds.”

“That would be nice,” he replies, managing to keep his bite to a minimum. Against his better judgement, he finds himself liking the man.

Surprisingly, it's Yasukawa that frees him, sawing through the ropes with alacrity. 

He stands quickly. “Let’s escape before Muroto returns with the army. You’ve put Kurofuji and Takebayashi somewhere safe?” 

The boys nod in unison. 

“No one else we need to deal with, besides Kikui and Muroto?” 

A collective shake of heads. 

“Don’t worry,” the chamberlain says. “I’ll take care of them.” Mutsuta doesn’t look pleased by the prospect, merely resolute. 

“Good. Then let’s get out of here.” 

They take Mutsuta next door to the ladies, who are waiting at the door. The three catch one another in a wordless embrace. Watching them makes him feel like someone is burning a candle behind his eyes. He turns away. 

Izaka stands beside him, somehow still energetic after such a long day. “Thank you for all your help, sir,” the boy says. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Yasukawa’s words about gratitude echo in his head. He’ll show that idiot. He’ll say something nice. “...You and the centipede gang did tolerably, I suppose,” he mutters. 

The boy practically bounces. “Thanks! It means a lot to hear from you.”

He scrutinizes the boy for any sign of sarcasm before replying. “It’s alright.” 

They all bustle inside. Mutsuta wastes no time in writing letters, presumably to various allies and superiors, explaining the situation. They move to the chamberlain’s house, where the servant girl Koiso is there to greet them. The cavalry, now on the correct side, help gather the hungover guards. Their leader reports they’ve confined Kikui to the man’s home, but that Muroto has escaped. Of course. The news draws a sigh out of him and sets off a flurry of new letters. 

There’s not much for him to do at this point, so he sits listlessly in the front. His shoulder twitches. There’s been no sign of Muroto, nor of anyone else that might be a danger. He feels like he’s forgetting something. It makes him anxious. 

“Shit!” he exclaims, loudly enough that he startles some passing cavalrymen. He strides back to Terada’s house and walks inside. Without all the boys cluttering it up, the house seems quiet and dead. He bangs on the closet door. “Oi! You can come out!” 

The guardsman peers out from inside the closet, looking worried. “Did we win?” 

“No, we lost. My ghost came back just to say hello,” he snaps. “ _Yes_ , we won. Now come with me so Izaka can get you a pardon.”

He gives a terse outline of what happened on their way back to the chamberlain’s house. “And so after that, we came back here. Not a single injury.”

“I’m so glad! I was worried if you would be alright.”

He pauses in the doorway. “What?” 

“I couldn’t help but fear that they’d seen through your ruse, and I felt so terribly I didn’t remember Komyo Temple’s layout in time.” 

He stares at the man. 

“For what it’s worth,” his former prisoner says, “I don’t hold any hard feelings for you wanting to kill me or for stuffing straw in my mouth or for killing those other guards. The straw was rather itchy but it was for a just cause, sir. I hold you in esteem.” 

“Eh...” he is at a loss for words. He settles for a nod and a hasty retreat. 

The lady finds him in the garden. He’s watching the slow, golden flashes of koi as they glide through the water. “You lost something in this victory, didn’t you?”

He throws a rock into the pond. The fish dart away from it. “Shouldn’t you be with your husband?”

“He’s bathing and wanted some privacy,” she says gently. “We don’t need to speak of it if you don’t want to.” 

“Hm.” He chucks another stone. 

“Do you think I can try that?” 

“Throwing stones? You might enjoy it.” 

She hefts a pebble. Her throw is a weak arc that barely hits the edge of the pond. “Oh, darn,” she exclaims. 

It puts a smile on his face. “Better luck next time.” 

The two sit for a while throwing stones. She’s not very good, but practically bounces with excitement whenever she succeeds in landing a pebble in the water. The fish make lazy turns around the pond. The birds sing in the trees. 

“You know,” she says after a long silence, “I was lucky to find love with my husband. So few do. When you find love, you ought to cherish it.” 

“Who said a thing about love?” 

“You’ve never needed to speak for me to hear you.” 

He doesn’t look at her. “It isn’t love. Do you really think love can bloom in a man like me?” 

“Must a camellia bloom for it to be pure and beautiful?” 

He stares straight ahead. Says nothing. 

“You don’t need to pursue this love, but I hope that you try.” She smiles. “Some loves remain unrealized, but there’s no need to resign yourself, is there?” 

She’s wrong about this, she has to be. 

The lady doesn’t know all the things he’s done, all the men he’s killed, all the screaming, crying, begging faces he’s cut down. If she’s a white camellia, he’s a bloodstained rag. Why did he ever think he could sit here and speak to her? 

She looks at him like she knows what he’s thinking. Maybe she does, considering her next words. “It’s never too late to change.” 

When she leaves, he allows himself the luxury of drawing his unsteady hands into his robe. 

After a while, he leaves the garden. His nerves are so shot that his hand twitches to his sword when the servant girl Koiso stands on the porch next to him. 

“Your room is ready, sir,” she tells him, studiously ignoring his reaction. Kind girl.

“My room?” He squints up at her. 

She nods. 

He half expects the room to be a closet or a pile of dirt, but they’ve actually given him one that is very nice. A small tray sits beside his mat. 

“What’s this?” he asks. 

“Oh, just some fresh clothes for you.” 

The girl withdraws while he continues to stare at the tray. He doesn’t want to think about it, so he sets off to pace the halls for a while. 

He is passing the chamberlain’s door when he hears a word that might be _Tsubaki_. He halts and listens, waiting to see if they plan to kill him or something. Maybe it’s an odd habit, but it’s happened enough times that this is reasonable, not paranoid. The murmuring of Mutsuta and the man’s wife condense into words. 

“You’ll hire that boy, won’t you, dear?” the lady asks. 

“Well, he did save my life, so I suppose I must. Though think of the strain. Every glance I caught of him would take 100 days off my life.” 

“Dear!” 

“Darling, you’ve seen him, haven’t you?” 

“It’s not his fault, poor boy. He just needs some guidance. Surely we could help him?” 

Mutsuta chuckles. “You think the best of everyone, my love. You’re usually right. Well, if you insist, I’ll offer him a position tomorrow.” 

It’s only as he creeps back to his quarters that he realizes the “boy” they are speaking of is him. 

An impending offer? It’s a sign to leave. He stares at the tray. These robes are too fine for him, he thinks, running his hands over the folded fabric. What kind of life would it be, a wolf pacing in a silk-thread cage? 

And there are other things they’d want him to give up, he thinks with emotion squeezing his chest tight. He can’t. His family name is all he has left of them. Even if it’s an unspoken word and a faded symbol on a filthy robe. 

...He’ll leave tomorrow. Today, he just needs to rest. 

He sets out early, just as dawn is breaking. The night had been rough, so it’s no struggle to rise and slowly pad across his room, quiet so as not to disturb anyone. He smooths out the robe in its tray, feeling an absurd need to make sure it is neat. He still has the money that he’d wheedled from Izaka a few centuries ago. For a moment, he hefts the coins in his hand, before deciding to take them. He considers it a nannying fee. He takes one last look at the house, quietly hoping that the lady will forgive him for leaving without a farewell. 

The walk is long and quiet. It gives him too much time to think. He thinks of ghosts, of bones and flesh turned brown with rot, the smell of decay. He thinks of every sword he’s owned, every sword he’s lost. He thinks of camellias. 

Muroto is waiting for him on the edge of town, of course. For a moment, he can’t help but hope that he’s been forgiven, but gives up the thought at the man’s expression. The samurai is as elegant as ever, but is enveloped by an aura of sleepless disorder. 

“So it comes to this, you lurking in wait for me,” he says. 

“I knew you would come. You’re not meant for that world.”

“Were you?”

Muroto’s expression twists. “You took that choice from me.” 

“I’m truly sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” 

“Then you should have accepted my offer sincerely. Instead, you twisted my trust to benefit Mutsuta’s pampered lackeys! You handed me defeat after defeat, shame after shame, and now you want me to forgive you?” 

“Muroto, you were warring with children. What could I do?” It’s rare that he’s at a loss for words, but he struggles to explain. “The world isn’t made for you and I. Not anymore. It’s for them. How could I, in good conscience, side against the future?” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“I’m sorry for that too.” He hesitates. “...You might understand me in time, if you wanted.” 

It takes Muroto a moment to understand. “No.” 

“Just come with me. We can leave this place behind, forget everything that’s happened.” Distantly, he can hear his voice rising in speed and volume, as if he can make Muroto listen by force. “With your skills, we can find work anywhere you like—” 

“No, never!” Muroto spits at him. “I have self respect. I have honor.” 

“It’s possible to live in dishonor. I’ve done it for years.” 

“You call that living? Limping from corpse to corpse like a wild dog? I’d rather die.”

“You’re running the risk of it,” he says, without any of his usual venom. 

“So, will you accept my challenge? A duel, for my honor.” 

He pulls Muroto into a kiss. There’s no artistry, just pure desperation. It drives a moan from Muroto, who wraps a hand around his neck to pull him closer. They kiss each other like sailors kiss the land. It’s warm and painful and he doesn’t think he can stop. 

Muroto’s lips are demanding, anger nowhere near spent. It’s nothing that he wants to resist. Yet, the man cups his head in a motion that is almost gentle. Every quiet sound he makes seems to spur Muroto on. He feels the play of Muroto’s muscles under his hands, shifting and tense. He wishes he had more time. 

When they stop he is dizzy, warm and fever-dazed. He doesn’t let Muroto go. “I’d rather do this than fight,” he says, his voice low. 

Muroto leans into the embrace, chest to chest, the man’s lips brushing his neck. “You dishonored me. Lied to me. Doesn’t that deserve retribution?” 

“I won’t hold back.” There is feeling like iron, heavy in his heart. 

“Good.” 

They draw apart. 

The boys somehow manage to stumble upon him. “Go home. I’m not coming back.” He doesn’t want an audience. This is already painful as it is. 

He turns to Muroto. “You insist on fighting?” There are so many more words he wants to say to the man, but he can’t, not with the boys watching, not when Muroto refuses to listen. 

“Yes. I’ve never been so outraged. You made a fool out of me.” He hears the unasked question: Why was I the only one blind? 

“Don’t get so angry. I had to do it. I knew you were stronger than me, so I had to—” 

“It’s too late for words. Draw!”

“I’d rather not.” He says it quietly. “If I do, one of us must die. It’s not worth it.” 

“It is to me,” Muroto replies, his voice thick with grief. “Otherwise, I can never be at peace.” 

“Very well. But even if you kill me, you mustn’t kill them.” He jerks his chin towards the boys. 

Muroto makes a wordless sound of agreement. 

“No matter what, you stay out of this!” he tells the boys. They are all staring with anticipation. 

In unison, he and Muroto draw their hands from their robes. He takes a moment to commit the man to memory. 

They stare at one another, and wait for the moment to strike. 

* * *

_Brilliant, as if there’s something admirable in gleaming. His ghosts whisper to him at night, asking why, why, why. Begging him to answer. He used to revel in the procession of the dead. Now, every year their pain stands brighter, overwhelms the old ecstasy of blood. He’s orphaned so many children and left countless parents bereft. Isn’t it time to be better? He is his own master. He has no excuse._

It is his dishonor that saves him. 

Muroto draws first, but goes for a conventional downward cut. He dodges and strikes left-handed with the blade reversed. He aims straight ahead, trusting his strength to make the blow fatal. 

Muroto’s blood splatters his robe. He hears the body fall behind him.

 _No._

His chest heaves. He doesn’t want to fall apart, not with the boys here. He doesn’t want any of this. 

He turns to look. Muroto Hanbei is dead, wearing a shocked expression into the afterlife. 

For a moment, the world shifts beneath him, shadows flushing red with every beat of his heart. The samurai’s face is Unosuke’s is Tsukue’s is every other man he’d left in a puddle of blood. 

“That was brilliant!” Izaka exclaims.

“Idiot! What do you know about anything?” he snarls. He cleans his sword and puts it away. He can’t stop staring at Muroto— or what’s left of him. “Be careful. I’m in a bad mood.” 

The boys don’t take the hint. They approach him, confused as to why he’s upset. 

“He was just like me,” he says, as much to himself as to them. “A drawn sword that wouldn’t stay in its sheath. But you know, the lady was right. The best sword is kept in its sheath. You’d better stay in yours.” What is there that he can teach them? To kill? To cut down their fellows? He needs to leave. 

They all stare, baffled, before running after him again. 

“Stop following me or I’ll kill you!” 

They all bow, on their knees. Izaka seems on the verge of tears. Why must they always make things worse?

He can’t bring himself to hate them. They’re young. Grown to manhood in a peaceful place. Not raised on blood like him. They will inherit the world. 

He sighs. “Goodbye.” Their eyes follow him down the road. 

_The future feels like a sword strike, shoulder to hip, a death knell for an era. Perhaps it’s time to retire._


End file.
